


Losing My Religion

by LettersFromTheAsylum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, elements of ptsd, more comfort though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 08:38:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21241274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettersFromTheAsylum/pseuds/LettersFromTheAsylum
Summary: Gil finds him on a beach in Brooklyn in the middle of December.





	Losing My Religion

When he laid eyes on the boy, Gil sighed. He stepped forward, off the ledge and into the sand, doing his best to make noise so he didn’t startle Malcolm. There wasn’t much Gil wouldn’t do for the kid, but it was four in the morning and his eyes were still blurry and unfocused. Driving here was a challenge in and of itself. Waking up to Jessica’s frantic phone call was enough to get his heart beating out of his chest, but the rest of him hadn’t caught up yet.

The wind whipped around him as he came to a stop behind Malcolm. He was severely underdressed for the current weather. The sky was light and the forecast called for snow, yet here was Malcolm Whitly, ten years old and wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. He was sitting in the sand, staring out into the dark water with a blank expression. Gil pulled his coat off and draped it over the boy before sitting in the sand beside him. He watched the water too. Maybe he could figure out what intrigued Malcolm so much about this place.

“You know, your mother is worried about you.” He glanced over at Malcolm, wondering if he had even heard him. The boy’s expression remained the same. “How did you get to Brooklyn, anyway?”

Gil knew he wouldn’t get a response. It had only been two months since Martin was arrested and Malcolm had shut down. Any attempt at communicating with him resulted in blank stares or, more often, no acknowledgement at all. His therapist said he needed to come out of it on his own, that the stress and trauma had probably caused it. 

Despite only knowing him for a short time, Gil felt a paternal protectiveness for the boy. Only ten years old and already faced with so much. He didn’t think it was fair.

Gil took his eyes away from the crashing waves and studied Malcolm. His cheeks were red and his eyes were glassy from the burning wind. Gil’s coat dwarfed him, and he looked so much smaller than he already was. He looked so scared.

Gil didn’t notice it at first, but Malcolm was holding something. Gripped in a tight fist was a cross and some beads. Gil smiled when he recognized it; a rosary. Jackie had given it to him upon their first meeting, for safekeeping, she told Malcolm. Jackie didn’t mean for  _ Malcolm _ to keep the cross safe, but for the cross to keep  _ him _ safe.

“Hey, kid.” Gil put a hand on his arm. He snapped out of whatever daze he was stuck in and looked at the hand. Then he grabbed the coat and studied it, like he hadn’t seen one before and didn’t know where it came from. Gil guessed Malcolm  _ didn’t  _ know he was there.

When Malcolm’s eyes met his, he understood. The kid’s gaze was vacant, like he wasn’t even there. Suddenly, he jumped and tugged the coat tighter around his small frame. He clutched the rosary to his chest.

“Malcolm?” This time, Malcolm briefly glanced at him, at least recognizing he was being spoken to. “Kid, I need to take you home. You’re going to freeze.”

Gil didn’t wait for any kind of reply. He climbed to his feet, aging knees popping, and pulled the boy up. As he led him to the car, Gil was relieved to find Malcolm was at least cognizant. He’d have to mention this to Jessica, though. Gil thought it was rather alarming that Malcolm had seemed to dissociate long enough to somehow make it from his bed on the Upper East Side to a beach in Brooklyn. Luckily, he was only a few blocks away from Gil’s apartment and it hadn’t taken long to find him. The temperature had to be in the negatives and he didn’t want to think about what could have happened had he not found him in time.

Gil blasted the heat and glanced over at the shivering boy. As he pulled into the road, he was overcome with anger. Malcolm had done nothing to deserve this, none of the Whitlys had. According to Jessica, Malcolm idolized his father, and Martin couldn’t have been more deserving of it. What had gone wrong? What made Martin decide that killing people was better than being a father? Martin Whitly had done some awful things, and the punishment fell on his family. If you asked Gil, Martin got off easy. The little boy trembling in his passenger seat, too afraid to fall asleep, overburdened with his own emotions to the point where he couldn’t even speak, was paying for his father's sins.

By the time they got over the bridge, Malcolm was struggling to stay awake and when they pulled up in front of the house, he was out. Jessica stood at the entryway and made her way down the stairs as Gil climbed out of the car and walked to the passenger side. 

“Oh, thank god.” She said, not sounding particularly thankful. Gil wondered if Jessica was always this closed off or if it was a trauma response. Regardless, this was her son, there should be more of a response. “Where did you find him?”

Gil sighed and leaned against the car door. “Brooklyn.” He said simply.

Jessica looked more confused than anything else. “Brooklyn? How did he manage that?” 

Gil shrugged. “No idea. I still can’t get anything out of him.” Exhaustion hit him like a ton of bricks. It was five now, the sun would be rising soon and he had to be at work early. He turned and pulled on the door handle before he remembered something.

“Jessica...” he began, then stopped. He had no clue how to voice his concerns.

“Yes?” She prompted, an eyebrow raised. Her voice was both concerned and condescending at the same time and it grated on him.

“He sees a therapist, right?” 

“For about a month now, why?”

Gil turned back to the sleeping boy, still slumped in his seat. He was so small. “I think he dissociated. I’ve seen it before, in trauma survivors.” 

Jessica crossed her arms across her chest. “What does that mean?”

Gil felt the first few flakes of snow hit his face and he glanced upward. The sky was beautiful when it snowed, making the world look closed in and small. The snowfall silenced the city a bit, but it did little to comfort him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Let’s get him inside, we’ll figure the rest out later.” 

Gil reached inside and gathered Malcolm in his arms. He made his way into the house and up the stairs. The house was surprisingly quiet at this hour, especially considering Jessica looked like she hadn’t slept at all, he wouldn’t figure she’d let the staff sleep.

Gil carefully maneuvered Malcolm through the doorway and was struck with just how normal the room was. A toy chest in the corner, filled to the brim with action figures and toy cars, posters from movies on the walls and some trinkets on a desk. Yeah, Malcolm was a child, but Gil never knew that version of him. He only knew this haunted one, that hadn’t spoken to him since they met, and had to be medicated to get through the day. Malcolm had, just recently, been a normal kid. 

After making sure the boy was tucked in, he rose and turned to leave. Before he got to the door, he noticed a leather bound book that had been sloppily hidden under the bed. Gil checked to make sure Jessica wasn’t near then picked it up.

The book was rather small, with the initials  _ M.W.  _ stamped on the spine. Judging by the wear and tear, the book was old, so it likely wasn’t Malcolm’s. He felt a pang in his gut. 

Gil reluctantly opened the book. On the first page was writing, so sloppy that he couldn’t decipher it if he tried. He flicked through the other pages, still having no luck. As he shut the book, something fell at his feet.

A photo.

He felt a bit guilty now. Although he couldn’t read what was written, this was something that belonged to Martin. It was something that was clearly treasured by the man, and now treasured by his son. If Malcolm had gone through the trouble of hiding it, it meant that he didn’t want it to be found. Yet, here he was, snooping through Malcolm’s things while he slept.

Gil shook his head and kneeled to pick up the photo. He intended to put it back and be on his way, but he froze. Martin Whitly’s face stared back at him, arm around Malcolm. They stood in a forest somewhere, a station wagon in the background. There was such joy in Martin’s eyes, Gil had a hard time believing it could be faked. He looked so happy, proud even, standing there next to his son. Gil looked closer and saw that the photo was dated a week before Martin’s arrest.

Gil exhaled. He was tired. He tucked the photo back into the book and slid it further under the bed. No one would see it unless they were looking for it. As he finally stood in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at Malcolm. He looked peaceful, relaxed. Gil gave the sleeping boy a small smile before heading off. 

Malcolm was safe. Safe from serial killer fathers and his nightmares.


End file.
